


May Day

by Madzapan



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Celtic Mythology, Original Work, Welsh Mythology
Genre: Dark, Fae & Fairies, Fairies, Fantasy, Gen, Mabinogion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29421492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madzapan/pseuds/Madzapan
Summary: Wendelin Williams has one thing in common with her family's distant ancestor, King Arthur: she's a Wielder, able to use legendary weapons to fight evil and stuff. But other than that? She's stuck in rural Ohio, a tired grad-school dropout of 25. So, not exactly some famous Welsh king.Her main concern in the past ten years of Wielding has been not dying a terrible and grisly death, and also training her cousin, Mercia. But in late April, Wen starts to see a strange and ominous figure watching her every move with glowing white eyes - a fairy. When the fairy steals Mercia away, Wen is thrown into the center of a fairy feud that's been boiling for centuries.In order to get her cousin back, she'll have to partner with an Unseelie fairy who annoys the shit out of her. And that's not the only problem - if Wen doesn't find her cousin before May Day, she'll be lost forever.No pressure.
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! This is a novel written for NaNoWriMo, heavily inspired by Welsh mythology. It falls under the "New Adult" category, and is a modern fantasy of sorts. A new chapter will be posted every week!  
> Enjoy :)

“It approaches again,” said the fairy.

The spirits behind him took no notice.

Of course, he hadn’t said it to anyone in particular; rather, it had been a declaration to the dark fields spread before him, stretching into infinity. The plains of Annwn whispered as wind rippled their dry grasses. 

It was disheartening, at times, to stand watch over such a desolate place. The distant mountains were hardly a break from the monotony of the endless fields. For, although the fairy used to spend hours and centuries in those forested mountains, they were now grounds on which he could not tread. 

Well, he could, but it would have been… 

Awkward.

He’d had a friend from those mountains once, a reckless and stupid friend. That one had thought the worlds that bordered theirs were fascinating, rather than full of great and terrible evils, as the fairy himself knew them to be. Humans, so said his friend, carried such potential for entertainment.

When they are alive, the fairy would always think. 

When they are dead, they become vengeful, and they press on the borders of this world.

But his friend cared not for consequences, and often went to play with the humans. The fairy didn’t care for the way he played with them; it often involved their humiliation and their injury. It was better, in the fairy’s opinion, to stay away from them entirely, and respect their existence in that way.

His friend thought it better to use them for his playthings.

The fairy often tried to convince his friend to leave them alone, and that, despite their lesser sophistication and lack of knowledge of the general order of things, humans were a form of life. His friend never listened.

For many years, this was a strain between the two.

And then, her.

The fairy’s friend usually returned to his mountain home within a short and reasonable time. But once, the fairy was left waiting for his friend’s return. He began to grow worried as the Annwnian nights crept up, one upon another. Finally, after seven of these, he found his friend seated by the fire in his manor in the mountains. 

“Where were you?” he asked.

His friend was quiet.

“Why were you gone so long?” 

“You think it was long,” said his friend. His voice was soft. “Have you any idea how long it was for her?”

“For whom?”

“Seven years,” said his friend. “A night for us is a year for them. Had you any idea?”

The fairy didn’t know what to say. He’d never given much thought to the timeframe of the human realm. It wasn’t their world that caused him the most concern; it was this one.

As his friend stared into the fire, the fairy saw something in his eyes that he never had before. 

“Her beauty didn’t fade,” he said. “But it changed. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Of whom do you speak, friend?” said the fairy.

His friend smiled. “Of a human.”

The fairy knew of how his friend treated his playthings. Dangerously. “What have you done?” he said.

His friend turned from the fire to face him. “What do you mean by that? I haven’t done anything.”

“Have you rent her limbs?” said the fairy. This friend of his had many favorite games. “Have you fed her poison under the guise of nectar?”

He shook his head. “A creature as beautiful as she?” he said. “Never.”

“Then what, pray tell,” said the fairy, “have you been doing for seven nights?”

“Seven years,” said his friend. “And it was not enough. I plan to return to her tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” said the fairy. He had never known his friend to be eager. The type to follow a whim, yes, but the type to do it lazily. The type to do what came easily.“Then why bother to return at all? The journey does not come without a toll.”

“I wanted to tell you,” said his friend. “So you did not worry and rain fire upon the world.” He laughed.

“I worried for you,” said the fairy. He still did not know what to make of his friend’s strange expressions, the unfamiliar look in his eyes. “But now I worry for her, whoever she may be.”

His friend’s smile became a private one. “Her name is Creiddylad.”

Did this mortal have his friend under a spell? The fairy did not know him to be private, or quiet, or remotely sentimental.

“Is she one of their watchers?”

“Witches,” said his friend. He laughed again.

“Witches, then. Is she one of those?”

“No,” said his friend. “Far from. Everything that is evil would run from her. The hordes you guard against would weep for the sight of her.”

Can any mortal be so good? thought the fairy. Were that the case, I would not need to stand against their vengeful spirits. My armies could go home.

“It sounds,” said the fairy to his friend, “as if you’ve found a favorite new plaything.”

A screech sounded as his friend pushed his chair back and stood. “She is anything but.”

“You’ve told me yourself, friend,” said the fairy, “humans are your pastime, as standing vigil is mine. You’ve made playing with them your purpose.”

He couldn’t say why, but rage now burned behind his friend’s eyes. “Most of them, perhaps. Not her.”

“You always tell me stories of your games,” said the fairy. “No matter how many times I ask you to refrain. This isn’t any different; go on, tell me what game you’ve planned for this mortal.”

“I haven’t!” said his friend. “I’ve only come to tell you that I’ll be gone a while longer, and to ask you not to scald the Earth while I’m away.”

“The what?”

“The Earth,” said his friend. “That’s what they call it.”

“Since when do you care for the language of humans?”

His friend shook his head. “I should have known,” he said. “You are distant, and cold, and you do not comprehend passion of any kind.”

“No,” said the fairy, “I do not. Not when it leads fae like you to play around with lives, however lesser they may be.”

“This is not a game.”

“It is always a game with you.” The fairy had had enough of this. “Whatever it is you are doing with her, I will not allow this mortal to be hurt any longer. Stay here, for her good and for the good of your own soul.”

His friend walked to him and looked up into his face. “A bold request for somebody without one.”

The fairy glanced over to the fire burning in the hearth. It went dark, blue smoke drifting up into the manor’s greatroom, now lit only by the triple moons of Annwn.

“Listen well,” said the fairy. “This is no longer a request. As king of the fae and Lord of Annwn, I command you to stay here. You may not visit the mortal Creiddylad, for I know your intentions to be of the dark sort.”

His friend’s face contorted. “You know? You know my intentions?” The floor rumbled. “How could you ever?”

“Friend,” said the fairy, “this is for your good. For the mortal’s as well. If you truly like this one, you will let your dangerous desires wane.”

“You have always thought me wicked, haven’t you?” said his friend. A few of the floorboards tore themselves from the ground and began twisting themselves into roots. “Ancient, bitter creature you are, you have always thought me a child!”

One of the roots rushed toward the fairy.

He caught it with a flame and, before it could reach him, it was ash. 

“If you refuse to obey,” said the fairy, “I will have to take desperate measures.”

"Then be desperate,” said his friend. 

The walls of the manor began to twist. The fairy had never known his friend to be sentimental, but for him to destroy his beloved home, it would take something beyond reason. Whatever game his friend had begun with this mortal, it was clearly an obsessive one. It had to be stopped.

The fairy opened a door.

“You run?” said his friend. “You run from me, Lord of Annwn?” He laughed. “Rather than admit you’re wrong, you run!” The roots rushed to where the fairy stood.

He closed the door behind him. 

All was silent on the paths, the dark roads connecting Annwn and the human realm. His friend would not be able to follow him, however well he knew this labyrinth; none were as fast as the fairy king.

When he emerged into the human realm, morning was breaking. Without the dark to hide behind, the fairy hid his stature and his true face. There was no reason to frighten the mortal.

He found her in a thicket of berry bushes, gathering fruit in a small basket. Her golden hair gleamed in the sunlight, its color the opposite to anything that ever was or ever would be in Annwn. When she heard his steps on the grass and turned to face him, the fairy was sure that she was, in fact, the most beautiful mortal to have ever lived.

It was no wonder his friend had wanted her for his games.

The games— he’d seen them. They would inevitably end with her destruction. And, if such a beautiful creature was destroyed in her prime, one more would surely join the ranks of the vengeful dead. The fairy did not need more spirits at his back and at the backs of his armies.

Without a word, the fairy took her and hid her away.

That was the beginning of it.

Now, as he stood before the dark plains of Annwn, the fairy could feel it all beginning again. It takes many days and nights for a fairy to grow tired of something, but he had been tired of this for years and years. 

Something in him ached to return to the manor in the mountains, to find his friend sitting by the fire. Ah, if he could return to that day and slay his friend on the spot, before he even turned around. All of this could have been avoided; he’d only have to live with the guilt, instead of the guilt and the dread and the sorrow.

But Calens Mai approached, and, the fairy king knew, so did the battle.


	2. Chapter 2

Locks were hard to pick, but windows were easy to break.

A couple large rocks sat in front of the door, probably used as makeshift doorstops in the way mom and pop shops always seemed to. Any of them would do, but Wen picked the largest one. 

With a two-handed swing, she heaved it through the front of the antique shop’s window. It landed inside with a THUD that roused a huge cloud of dust from the old, thick rugs spread across the creaky wooden floor. 

Wen wrapped her fingers around the thin hilt of the dagger at her hip. Then she drew it, and disappeared.

Well, disappeared as long as she kept to the shadows. At night, that wasn’t hard to do, which was also why she didn’t do this during the day. That, and she didn’t feel like getting arrested again.

The shelves were packed with candidates, but tonight, Wen was looking for a specific kind of clock. She’d been itching to get her hands on one with a torsion pendulum for ages, and she’d just gotten the new tools she’d been saving for since she was, what, eighteen? Seven years in the making, then.

But first, she had to find a patient.

In the back of the main room, under the staircase, was a case of clocks. Wen crept over silently, avoiding the patches of moonlight scattered across the floor. Security cameras probably wouldn’t see her even if she did step into them, but better safe than sorry. She cringed - that last phrase had come into her head in Mercia’s voice. Her cousin was the careful type, the elegant type. She’d only just started in the family business, and she took it very seriously.

The family business being Wielding, of course. Not clock thievery.

Surprising how often the skill sets for the two overlapped.

She reached the case. All manners of ticking and tocking, slightly offset from each other, came through the glass. The first few shelves didn’t have what she was looking for, so Wen pushed up onto her tiptoes for a better look at the upper ones. 

Yes! There, on the top shelf, the face of her next patient peered at her. The hands were stuck, proclaiming it five o’clock to the very three AM world. Thank goodness— if it wasn’t broken, she’d have had to look elsewhere. Wen tugged on the doors of the case.

Locked.

She glanced around. Her eyes landed on a rack of umbrellas, and without hesitating, she treaded across the shadows to get one. The curved handle of the one she picked was splintery, but it had also seemed like the heaviest. Back across the shadows, a good backswing, and—

SMASH.

Wen reached in through the broken glass and gently lifted the clock down from the bottom shelf. The little orbs that usually spun at the base of the piece were still.

“I’ll fix you up,” said Wen.

The clock didn’t answer.

Yeah, they were always ungrateful. Wen didn’t do it out of the goodness of her heart, anyway. It was just a hobby. She’d never thought she was a detail person until the clocks, and she still wasn’t, but at least she was a detail-person-when-specifically-related-to-clocks. 

With a glance back at the broken case— it was shadowed, no one would know— Wen turned and headed for the front of the store. She thought briefly, as she always did, of unlocking the front door and going out that way. But that would ruin the wonderful opportunity of using the giant glass hole she’d made as a door instead. She never could pass that up.

The early-early morning sky was a special kind of dark. It looked like it didn’t want to be dark, but that was its job, so it would do it. Wen related.

She headed down to the little pickup truck parked along the side of the road, hopped in the passenger side, and slid across the leather seat. Mercia always asked her if she’d stolen Murray— the truck, naturally— and Wen always shrugged and told her to get in. She hadn’t, but her cousin was fun to mess with.

With a smooth little sputter, Murray’s engine started up, and Wen was back on the road to home. The roads in Ohio were flat, and some were so boring that she sometimes wanted to jump out of the car for any kind of excitement. Thankfully, this antique store was only about forty-five minutes from the house.

She rolled in just before four, thanks to some eighteen-wheeler that thought it might be fun to drive thirty in a fifty-five. But whatever. She had the clock.

Wen parked Murray outside the garage, halfway up the driveway. Her truck was the family’s only car, but the garage was full anyway. She walked up carrying the clock, which she’d wrapped in an old T-shirt. The garage door was up, just the way she’d left it before everyone had gone to bed. No point in waking them all up. A bare bulb threw light onto workbenches and tinkerings, bins of wood scraps from her failed attempts at carving, and so, so many wrenches. They weren’t useful for clocks, but they were useful for Murray, and Wen liked the way they looked.

She moved a few other patients out of the way— they were the long-term ones that would probably take her till Friday—and set the torsion pendulum specimen down. Instinctively, Wen reached up for the old mp3 player sitting on top of boxes of screws and nails. She plugged in the headphones she’d gotten at the dollar store for five dollars (what kind of sense did that make?), slipped them into her ears, and hit play.

Bon Jovi assaulted her ears. But, like, in a good way.

When she opened the thing up, Wen could tell that it was the escapement mechanism causing the problem. Huh. That wouldn’t take too long if she could find the right parts lying around in…

She looked at the piles in the garage.

...all this.

Whatever the case, she had to finish by seven. 

It didn’t take quite that long. By six thirty, she was closing up the clock and packing up her tools. By six forty-five, she was back in Murray’s front seat, backing down the driveway. Light was starting to come into the sky, but it was still that early-morning kind of light. Nice for driving in.

The horizon started to turn pink as she careened down the country roads at approximately double the speed limit— that said, everyone who lived here knew that the speed limit was more of a suggested minimum. No eighteen-wheeler this time to slow her and Murray down. She made it back to the store before dawn had touched the road. Only the tops of the trees were lit up. 

The hole in the antique store’s front window was still there. Not that she’d expected any differently, but she’d once come back to a store and found her customary hole boarded up. Turned out the older man who ran the store also lived above it, and had heard her smash the window. He’d stayed upstairs, afraid of her, then come down to find the hole. She’d only learned all this because, when she’d driven by, the old man had been outside talking to the police. She parked Murray up the road and, with her dagger, snuck down in the shadows to listen. 

He hadn’t seen a thing, and couldn’t prove any more than that. It was too bad, too— if he hadn’t called the cops, he would have gotten his clock back.

Now, Wen carried the repaired timepiece up the stairs and into the shop. She unwrapped the T-shirt around it and placed it carefully back into its case. It looked happy up there, its hands finally moving time along once again. Wen nodded to it. On her way out, as she passed the front counter, a little glass dish full of brooches and other baubles caught her eye. She snagged one at random as she passed and pocketed it. Then, on the edges of the last shadows of the night, she stepped out the hole in the window and hopped back into the driver’s seat.

She was getting kind of tired of WRQK, but finding a new radio station was tough in a smaller area like this. Besides, she’d tried the other rock stations, and none of them played quite as much AC/DC as this one. By the time she rolled into her driveway for the second time that morning, they’d played Back in Black no less than four times. And that was with a stop for breakfast at Cane’s (yes, fried chicken was breakfast). They’d probably played it again while she’d gone inside. 

Wen finished the last piece of chicken as she walked into the garage. She tossed her keys on some nearby workbench— she’d find them again, sure— and pulled a small box off one of the many shelves. Absently, she threw in the brooch she’d grabbed from the store. It clinked against the others when it landed.

“Why do you take those?”

Wen jumped. The voice was low, smooth like honey. Sweet like the syrups she had them pump into whatever froofy drink she’d undoubtedly ordered at Starbucks. Again.

“You’re early,” she said. She turned to see her cousin Mercia, venti cup in hand.

Mercia shrugged with one shoulder. “I wanted to get an early start. Rübezahl has been asking for our help for, what, weeks now? Figured I’d better get some more field training first.”

“I’ll handle it,” said Wen. Training Mercia took time and more than a little of her patience. “He says it’s just some bwbachod. Brownie-ish things. It’ll be faster if I do it.”

Mercia looked dejected.

It wasn’t fair. Mercia’s dejected face was basically Wen’s friendly face, and Wen’s dejected face was… enough to burn through a tire. And, since it had persisted through to twenty-five, Wen didn’t expect that to change anytime soon. She’d always be short-tempered.

Short everything, actually. Everything about Wen was short. Her hair, her nose, her legs, her temper. That was just the way it was.

And Mercia? Mercia Mason, first cousin on her mom’s side, was elegant. No other way to put it— long legs, long golden hair, and straight, narrow features. True, she was still a little ungainly, but that was going away now that she was eighteen. And she was so relentlessly optimistic that it hurt Wen’s brain.

Because if Wendelin Williams was anything, it wasn’t optimistic.

“I could help, you know,” said Mercia. “If it’s just minor fae, I mean, wouldn’t it be a good opportunity for me to—”

“I don’t think so,” said Wen. She propped her elbows on the workbench and leaned back. “You know those drinks add up, right?”

Mercia’s face grew drawn and she clutched the cup a little tighter. “It’s not that much. And it’s all I spend anything on. You know that.”

Wen did know that. Their family was always strapped for cash, Mercia’s even more than Wen’s. You’d think a family directly descended from King Arthur would have some sort of secret treasury— at least, Wen did— but you’d be wrong. The Williamses lived in a two-story house full of dated furniture, all salvaged from somewhere. The roof was falling apart. Her parents had been asking her to get the raccoons out of the attic for months now, but Wen figured they weren’t hurting anybody.

Her cousin lived with her mom in Whispering Pines Mobile Home Park, fifteen minutes away. Mercia was an artist with drugstore makeup and thrift store finds, and, despite being only eighteen, was probably even more meticulous with her savings than Wen. 

The Starbucks just drove her crazy, and for another reason besides the money.

“Well, whatever,” her cousin was saying. “I know what I can spend.” A blush spread across her pretty features. “Wen, he got my name wrong again.”

That reason.

“Merce,” said Wen, “they all do that. Probably to irritate you. And if he is flirting, that’s a shitty way to do it. Not super creative.”

“Ouch, Wen. He’s trying.”

“How old is he again?” said Wen.

Mercia looked aside. “Oh, I don’t know. Twenty one, twenty two… early twenties.” She bit her lip. “Or late twenties. Or something. I don’t know. He’s cute.”

“What’s his name?”

“I told you yesterday.”

“I didn’t listen yesterday,” said Wen.

Mercia sighed. “Victor,” she said. “As long as he’s wearing the right nametag. I think sometimes they switch them.”

“Last name?” said Wen. 

“Why?” said Mercia.

“Don’t know,” said Wen. She crossed her arms. “Last name, address, social security number… do you need a social security number to report a pedophile?”

“Wen!”

Wen cracked a smile. “Hey, I’m just looking out for you.”

“I’m an adult!” said Mercia. “That’s not—”

“I’m not even an adult,” said Wen. She laughed and pushed off from leaning against the workbench. “Alright, come on. If you’re here early, we can get done early.”

“I actually wanted to get some extra practice in—”

“Nope,” said Wen. She glanced at Mercia’s drink. It had whipped cream. “Maybe if you’d brought one of those for me.”

Mercia flipped her off.

  



	3. Chapter 3

The Williams family backyard was big, wooded, and brown. Ohio weather didn’t exactly lend itself to verdant greens, so the grass was perpetually in a state of half-death. Might not have looked great, but it did keep her parents from getting on her about tearing it up while training. It was hard to care about brown grass, Wen supposed, getting torn up in favor of brown dirt. Not too much of a difference from far away.

Mercia sat her drink on a low, crumbling stone wall at the foot of the hill that rose behind the house. Then, she unslung the case hanging on her shoulder and around her back. When she unzipped the nondescript black bag, Wen was treated to a view of a pair of old pajama pants with butterflies flitting around on them. 

“I like the new sheathe,” she said.

Mercia smiled as she lifted the object, wrapped in the pants, out of the case. “Found them when I was cleaning some things out. I thought it would be funny.”

“Yeah,” said Wen. “Ironic, at least. Good call.”

Her cousin unwrapped the pink, butterflied fabric. When it fell away, in Mercia’s hand was a long, shining blade. Clarent, Arthur’s sword of peace. The sword that his illegitimate son Mordred had used to kill him.

Wen wasn’t jealous. No way.

She pulled her dagger from the small sheathe at her hip. She never took off the sheathe, though she did exchange it for a variant strapped around her thigh, depending on the day. No one ever noticed it. That was one of the perks of owning Carnwennan, Arthur’s dagger of shadows. Wen would love to see Mercia try to carry her sword around in public like that.

Like the rest of her, Wen’s weapon was short. Its hilt and crossguard of bronze and iron was far from elegant, far from the white gold plating on the hilt of Clarent. 

_ Nope, not jealous.  _

__ “Alright, let’s go,” said Wen.

“What about our armor?” said Mercia. She looked down at the sword in her hand. “We’re supposed to, you know…”

“Yeah, you won’t always have armor in the field,” said Wen. “Didn’t you just ask for field training?”

“I guess so.”

“Also my armor’s in the basement, and I don’t feel like going down there.” Wen tossed Carnwennan in the air. The dagger did a perfect flip before landing in her palm again. “Come on. Hit me.”

“You’ll cut yourself if you keep doing that,” said Mercia. She glanced away again. “Wen, all the books say I’m supposed to train with armor for at least the first couple of months.”

“Months, schmonths,” said Wen. “And what ‘books?’ You mean  _ book _ .” Mercia had been really pestering her about that lately, what the  _ book  _ said, how the  _ book  _ told her to train. 

The book, of course, was a ramshackle collection of her family’s notes, observations, procedures, and the like. Some drawings, too. There wasn’t exactly an organization to this Wielding thing, and even though her family was probably one of the older lines of Wielders, there was no way to know for sure. It wasn’t like people went around declaring their supernatural ability to wield ancient weapons. Most families stuck to themselves. Wen had heard rumors of some families in Germany, but that was it, really. German fae were notoriously hard to deal with, anyway, and had nothing to do with the Ohio kind of problems.

“Look,” she said to Mercia, “do you want field training or not? Either we do it now, or I go get coffee.”

“Oh, I see. You want to meet Victor,” said Mercia.

“Who?” said Wen.

“The barista.”

“Oh. Fuck you.” 

Mercia laughed and took a fighting stance. 

“So I guess we’re doing this,” said Wen. She mirrored the stance, a smile on her face against her will. It was always refreshing when Mercia made a joke outside of her usual good-natured-ness. Maybe she was a real person and not some mystical being stuck down here with all the smelly humans.

“Stop talking,” said Mercia, and she made her first thrust with Clarent.

Wen caught the blade on Carnwennan’s crossguard and pushed it away.

Dagger vs. sword— do you have a chance? Short answer: no. If Wen had been fighting with an ordinary dagger, she knew, she’d have been dead after one sparring match with Mercia. Ignore the fact that she had ten years of training on her, was probably stronger, and didn’t have glasses she refused to wear. The imbalance of the length and the associated power of a sword stacked up against a dagger was enough to spell doom for anyone with any level of skill.

But, all that said, Carnwennan wasn’t an ordinary dagger. Even with day encroaching on the morning, Wen had shadows she could use.

Mercia spun and swung at her again, a long, elegant stroke, her golden hair shining in the sun. Wen let a scowl cross her face as she stepped back into the edge of the shadow cast by their house, disappearing and throwing Mercia off-balance. No matter how strong or precise you were, your target disappearing was bound to throw off your follow-through.

Mercia stumbled and took a recovery step, but she wasn’t dumb enough to turn her back to the shadow. She lowered her sword and stalked along the edge of it.

“Come on, Wen, that’s not fair!” she said.

“It’s very fair,” said Wen.

Her cousin’s eyes darted along the shadowline. Not only did the shadow hide Wen; it obscured her voice as well. Mercia wouldn’t be able to tell which direction it was coming from.

“Yeah? How?” said Mercia.

“Some fae can go invisible,” said Wen. She crept along the shadow to the south edge of the yard. She’d eventually be able to flank Mercia. “So can a couple types of giants. Field training, remember?”

Mercia must have figured out what she was doing. She walked along the shadow, a little ways behind Wen. “You’re not totally invisible. It’s not the same.”

“You can’t see me, can you?” said Wen. It was true, though. Carnwennan obscured her from those who were looking, and the harder they looked, the harder she was to see—but that was the issue. Someone smart could tell where she was if they just paid attention to where they  _ weren’t  _ allowed to look. Sort of like being trapped in a glass box. You’ll know where the walls are once you try to get out.

“I can’t,” said Mercia, “but thanks for wearing work boots.”

Wen looked behind her. Her heavy steel-toed boots, which she wore for no good reason other than they made her feel tough, had sunk into the muddy yard, leaving slight but perceptible footprints.

“Well shit,” said Wen. She sat down.

“What are you doing?” said Mercia. She hadn’t quite reached her, but she was getting closer. 

“Taking them off.”

“You wouldn’t be able to do that in a real fight,” said Mercia. There was a slight whine in her voice. “Come on, Wen, take this seriously.”

“You haven’t found me yet, right?” said Wen. “So whatever thing we’re fighting wouldn’t have either, and I’d have time to take off my boots.” She got one of them off her foot. It smelled. She was about to start on the other one when…  _ idea.  _

Mercia hadn’t found her yet, so Wen hefted the boot once, twice in her hand—

And chucked it at her cousin.

The boot sailed through the air, not quite in Mercia’s peripheral vision. It was perfectly aimed to conk her in the head. Nothing too bad, just enough to end the skirmish. And to mess up her hair, probably.

And then Mercia caught it. 

She dropped it on the ground and looked right at the spot where Wen was sitting.

“Really, Wen?” she said.

Wen stood and walked into the light, her socked foot getting all wet from the mud.

“Boo,” she said. “You weren’t supposed to catch it.”

“What, are you—” Mercia blanched. “Are you going to throw a  _ boot _ at a hostile fairy? You think that’ll do anything against a harpy? Huh?” 

“It might.”

“It won’t!” Mercia put her hands on her hips. “That’s not fair, Wen. That’s not cool. I come over here to train with you, but all you do is mess with me.”

“It’s not like you have another option,” said Wen. They were the only two Wielders in the family at the moment.

“Exactly, I  _ don’t  _ have another option,” said Mercia. “First I get my powers late, then I get stuck with you as a mentor. You don’t even care. If I’d gotten my powers on time, my dad could have trained me!”

Wen felt something small in her die. 

“Oh, Wen, I’m sorry, I—”

Whatever. Mercia hadn’t been there. She didn’t— couldn’t— get it. Wen shook her head and turned around.

“We’re done,” she said.

“Wen, I’m really sorry.” Mercia sounded sorry. Wen heard her take a step closer. “I just… want to do this right.”

“Yeah?” said Wen. “I do, too. And I’ve been doing it for ten years. You got that?” She turned back around to look up at Mercia. “Since I was fifteen. You know what I’ve learned? Doing it right doesn’t mean following some book, or having a perfect all-knowing mentor, or saving the innocent normal people who don’t have to deal with this shit. Doing it right means staying alive.” She grit her teeth and took a step closer to her cousin. “Doing it right means not dying a horrible death. Whatever that takes. Everything is out to get you, and if you’re not terrified, you’re  _ wrong _ .”

Mercia stared down at her, eyes wide. Then she shook her head and backed away, sheathing Clarent in the process. Without a word, she left the yard and headed for the driveway.

Wen watched her go. Good, she’d have the rest of the day free.

Climbing into the driver’s seat of her car, Mercia paused.

“I can’t help that you’re scared, Wen,” she called.

“You’re stupid not to be,” said Wen. She hadn’t bothered to say it loud enough for Mercia’s benefit, but from the look on her face, it seemed like her cousin had heard her anyway. Then she pulled the car door shut, backed down the driveway, and drove away down the wooded street.

Coffee time.

Wen waited a little longer, till she knew Mercia would have made the turn to go back down toward Kent, the largest city in their county. After a few minutes, she hopped back into Murray for the third time that day. She didn’t usually go anywhere else for at least a couple days after one of her little nighttime excursions— gas was expensive— but they were out of coffee and she needed  _ something  _ tar-flavored to start her morning. Maybe she’d buy some cheap grounds while she was out.

And one cup of fresh, decent medium-roast.

The closest store was fifteen minutes north, so not that bad, and definitely not the one Mercia went to. She always went downtown instead, since her trailer park was pretty close to the city. When she pulled into the parking lot, though, Wen found herself irrationally worried that Mercia had decided on a second drink today, and that she’d decided to come up here instead.

_ She’s not here _ , thought Wen, as she turned off the engine.  _ No more awkwardness today. _

She pushed open the door, strolled up to the counter, saw the barista’s nametag, and blinked twice.

Mercia had been right. He was awfully cute. And definitely at least twenty-six.

“Victor,” said Wen, flatly.

“Sorry, have we…” Victor peered at her. “Have we met?” When he smiled, she could see his teeth were perfectly white, the dimples in his cheeks covered by a short, dark beard. 

“Yeah, no,” said Wen. “My cousin mentioned you.” No shame in telling him. If Mercia was interested, wasn’t it better he knew?

“Who’s your cousin?”

“Mercia Mason,” said Wen. She waited for the telltale look every boy got when she told them Mercia had taken notice.

Yep, there it was. His face lit up like Christmas lights on their first time out of the attic in ten years.

“Wow,” said Victor. He eyed her. “You guys don’t look much alike.”

_ Ouch.  _

“I know,” said Wen. “She looks pretty young, even for _ eighteen _ .”

“Really?” said the barista. Mercia’s age didn’t seem to surprise him. “She’s always so serious. I guess that ages you.” He looked at Wen again and nodded, as if in confirmation of his own assertion.

This whole thing was, frankly, grossing Wen out. But she couldn’t control who Mercia talked to, and Victor didn’t seem like a  _ total  _ creep. At least, he hadn’t brought up her hair or her eyes in the first couple sentences, which most guys tended to do.

Still. Ew.

“I guess so,” said Wen. She snorted. “If seriousness ages you, that makes me an old lady.”

Victor’s smile turned a little mischievous. “What, does that not count as a joke?”

“You didn’t laugh.”

“I didn’t say it was a funny one.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Wen. “I’ll have a small Pike. No room.”

Victor shook his head, the smile still plastered on his face. “Room?”

“Uh, room for cream. That’s my coffee order.”

“Coffee…” he said. Then he looked down, as if registering his green apron for the first time. Probably thinking,  _ oh, yeah, I work at Starbucks to serve coffee, not just to look at younger girls.  _ “Oh. Right. Just a second.”

He turned around, decanted some Pike Place roast into a cup, snapped the lid on neatly, and handed it to her. He didn’t seem particularly interested in ringing her up.

Wen pressed her lips together and raised her eyebrows.

Victor mirrored her look and shrugged. 

Guess it was on the house, then. Well, okay. She wasn’t going to press it.

“Thanks,” she said. As she turned to leave, she flipped him off. “Stop talking to my cousin.”

“Have a nice day, Wen,” he called after her.

Climbing back into Murray, Wen realized that she hadn’t told him her name.  _ So Mercia was bitching about me,  _ she thought.  _ Thanks, Merce. _ But if she had an outlet for it, she’d probably be doing the same thing.

Time to go get some cheap coffee grounds. Maybe Lou at the gas station would listen to her whine.


	4. Chapter 4

Brownies were the worst.

Not  _ brownies,  _ brownies; they were Wen’s favorite, as long as they were from a box and about fifty percent underbaked. But  _ fae _ brownies were terrible. Especially brownies of the Welsh variety, and since their Wielding clan was descended from King Arthur, it seemed to Wen that only the Welsh fae wanted to bother them. 

The little things were called  _ bwbachod,  _ and they were basically the personification of karma for not keeping your shit tidy and uncluttered. The little fae were no taller than the length of Wen’s hand, perfectly-scaled little people in idyllic little outfits stitched from leaves and scraps of abandoned cloth. They were super helpful to the people who didn’t need any help; that is, they favored you if you swept your kitchen like a good Welsh peasant and always hung your laundry out to dry and, occasionally, left them little berries or baubles as a gift. In return, they’d make sure your shoelaces never tangled and that your buttons stayed tightly sewn to your shirt.

They were a bitch to Wen, of course. She hadn’t done her laundry in three weeks, which made the shirt she was wearing… one of the cleanest in the last year. Usually, laundry day turned into laundry-two-months. The  _ bwbachod  _ punished her in their way by, among other things, making her sink drip and breaking her microwave. It was whatever, but the second they touched Murray, she was going to come at their nest with a blowtorch.

She might have to do that today, though. Rübezahl, their friendly neighborhood giant (“friendly” being a relative term), was notoriously lazy. He lived in the wooded hills behind the Williams’ house, and the tree branches he used to pick his teeth were always strewn about left and right. It was even a little much for Wen. But Rübezahl had been asking for help with a  _ bwbachod  _ infestation for a while, and it needed to be taken care of. She was always happy to put the little fae in their place, anyway. 

They weren’t too hard to deal with if you knew what you were doing, and how to dodge their sharp little teeth. It was sort of funny, the way they would jump at you, because outside of the teeth they looked exactly like regular people, and when they missed their tiny body would go sailing by and they’d land in a heap.

Wen had packed a couple of sandwiches for the hike over the hills to Rübezahl’s home. She stopped near the top of the first ridge to eat one of them. Maybe she should have brought the giant something as well. In addition to being a couch potato (or, well, a cave potato), Rübezahl’s relationship with food was tightly linked to his emotional state, which was itself highly unstable. If she showed up with food and none of it was for him, there was a high probability he’d start whining about  _ all I have is turnips and sourdough, you can’t TEMPT me like this, Wendelin _ . Bad times for everyone involved.

As Wen crested the second hill, the one the giant lived beneath, she felt a rumble. Snoring? Or running around because he was bored? Either was equally likely. She picked her way down the steep slope to the opening of a cave. The opening wouldn’t appear to casual hikers or passers-by, but to a Wielder, it was obvious. 

“Rübezahl?” she called. “You in there, buddy?”

Another rumble shook the woods, followed by the sound of something not dissimilar to a diesel engine. Or, in the giant’s case, a snort. Wen looked down at the floor of the cave. Its interior was dark, but water pooled at the toes of her boots.

Ah, shoot. He was crying.

Wen could feel a headache starting.

“Hey, man,” she said. She walked a little further into the cave. “What’s, uh… what’s up?”

Another rumble.

Wen sighed. “I hate ‘em too. Where are they? I’ll deal with them.”

A skittering sound came from far back in the cave, getting closer and closer to Wen. If this hadn’t happened dozens of times before, she’d probably have been startled.

The sounds stopped when a tiny creature reached her. Not a  _ bwbachod,  _ or any type of fae (Rübezahl couldn’t stand fae at all, actually), but a turnip. The giant was lonely in the low hills of Ohio, far from his original home in a mountain in Czechoslovakia. Wen wasn’t quite sure what his power base was, but it was vast and weird, and it apparently included the ability to make little friends out of turnips. They were friendly enough, and chattered in some language that Rübezahl seemed to understand.

The turnip made some sort of sound at her, then ran off out of the cave.

_ So I guess I’m following it _ , thought Wen.

It led her a little ways away from the cave, where a few huge bowls and kitchen utensils roughly hewn from stone lay about. Rübezahl’s kitchen. The turnip gestured madly to a faraway pot, the only piece made of metal, large enough to boil a car in.

Wen walked over to the pot and craned her neck to look at the top of it. The  _ bwbachod  _ must be in there, then. She briefly tried to think of a way to climb up the thing, but the hammered brass or whatever wasn’t quite rough enough to give her any footholds. With a sigh, Wen chose a nearby bowl, as big as a boulder, and started to climb.

Good thing Rübezahl wasn’t out here with her. Local kids climbed on his bowls all the time, and it drove him crazy. To them, and every normal person, the bowls and utensils looked just like all the other boulders strewn across the Appalachian glacial deposits. If he saw her doing the same, he’d probably freak out and backhand her into a tree.

She clambered up to a higher point on the bowl, where she lay down. No point in the  _ bwbachod  _ seeing her and getting tipped off. Then, she shimmied up the stone until she reached the top, and peered over the edge of the pot.

Oh, man.

A small table sat in the center of the pot, and little chairs made of twigs and grass were occupied by no less than twenty well-dressed  _ bwbachod.  _ They chatted to each other in thin little voices and sipped something from acorn caps.

The were having tea, and it appeared that the accompanying snacks were all made of one thing:

Turnips.

_ Again? Ugh. _

That was the crux of the issue, then. It didn’t have to do with the  _ bwbachod  _ punishing his untidiness--it would be pretty hard to punish a giant, anyway--it had to do with them eating his freaking turnips. Something was always eating Rübezahl’s turnips. Last week it had been a stray harpy that got lost on its way down from Lake Erie. That was bound to come of making your friends out of food, though, and it was getting old.

Wen searched the pot. The sun was in a pretty decent position for this; the dappled shadows of trees were cast all over the  _ bwbachod _ ’s picnic. 

Yeah, this would be easy.

She drew Carnwennan and jumped into the giant pot. Her boot crushed the table and sent acorn cups full of tea flying. The  _ bwbachod  _ scattered to the pot’s edges, hissing, their eyes wide.

“Hey, assholes,” said Wen. “Stay out of this guy’s kitchen.”

The first one launched itself at her. 

Wen tracked its shadow on the floor as it sailed through the air. Her own shadow was being cast a little to the left, so she got it into position. Right as the  _ bwbachod _ was about to reach her face with its sharp little teeth, Wen kicked its shadow with her own. 

Its body was knocked out of the air mid-arc and crashed into the side of the pot.

“Anybody else?” said Wen.

The fae hissed louder. Apparently, they all wanted a piece.

Cool.

Three more flung themselves at her, while a few tried to bite her ankles. She managed to swat two of them out of the air, while the third landed on her arm and sunk its teeth in. 

_ Yeow. Thanks, I’ll need to clean that. _

__ While she plucked the thing off her arm with her free hand, Wen used the shadow of her dagger, cast on the floor, to stab the ones biting her ankles. That was… five down, then? Six?

A large group, maybe seven or eight, had gathered on one side of the pot, crouched at various levels with their teeth bared. It looked like they were getting ready to charge.

Wen reached out for their shadows with her own and chose one at random. Although her actual hand was far above the floor of the pot, and even farther from the group of  _ bwbachod,  _ it just so happened that the shadow of her hand was very close to theirs. Close enough to pluck one from the group and hoist it into the air.

Mercia had once asked her if she could move things with her mind. Nope. Wen glanced at the pot’s floor, where her shadow appeared to be lifting the  _ bwbachod’ _ s. Not telekinetic. Just clever.

The little fae was flailing around in the air, looking about frantically, as if unable to tell what magical force was lifting it. Wen chucked it out of the pot.

The rest of the  _ bwbachod,  _ the group that gathered and the other ones scattered around, charged her.

The ones who chose to stay on the ground were picked up and tossed in a similar shadowy manner, while the flesh-and-blood Wen skewered the ones that launched themselves at her. She had to stop to scrape a  _ bwbachod _ off her blade, but she kept her shadow busy, knocking the grounded ones aside.

A few were managing to avoid her, skirting around the edges of the pot. While it was nice to have a bounded playing field, Wen figured it was time for a change in paradigm. With a running start, she pushed against the wall of the pot.  _ Nothing. Again. _ There, it had tilted a bit.  _ One more time. _

At the third push, the pot tipped over onto the ground with a great  _ CLANG. _

__ It spilled Wen and the remaining  _ bwbachod _ onto the forest floor. One landed next to her foot, so she kicked it into a tree. The last two took off running.

The thing was, though, their legs were short, and they weren’t quite able to get out of range of Wen’s shadow. It reached out and grabbed their shadows, and slowly dragged them back to Wen’s feet.

“Hi,” she said. She kicked them as hard as she could, just to see how far they’d go.

_ Ugh. That’s done. Still better than laundry day _ . That would take care of the  _ bwbachod  _ problem for at least a couple months. Wen sighed and started wiping the blood off her dagger. 

Even after ten years of training, it was tough to use Carnwennan’s full capabilities in a fight. Disappearing into shadows was one thing, but using your own shadow as an extra set of hands? It was like being in two places at once. It took a lot of thought and more than a little creativity, and both were things that battle and adrenaline didn’t always allow. That said,  _ bwbachod  _ hardly counted, so this had been a nice exercise. 

To her left, the one she’d kicked into a tree moved. With a flick of her wrist, she sent Carnwennan’s point neatly through its back and pinned it to the ground.

“Wen?”

Oh, shit. 

It was the fun police.


	5. Chapter 5

Wen looked up the hill to see Mercia making her way down. 

“What are you doing?” said Mercia.

Wen knelt down and pulled her dagger out of the  _ bwbachod. _ “Brownie problem. I told you.” She cocked her head. “Didn’t you leave?”

“I wanted to help, and I’m kind of sick of you telling me no,” said Mercia.

“Well, thanks,” said Wen. “But it’s handled.” She wiped off the blade and sheathed it.

Mercia reached the bottom of the hill and came right up to her. Wen would have been peeved at her for getting in her face, but it was hard to call it that when her cousin was so much taller.

“Handled?” said Mercia. “You  _ handled  _ it?”

“Yeah. I did.”

She blanched. “You’re killing them!”

“Yeah, I am.” Wen shrugged. “Dealing with them.”

“What the hell, Wen?” said her cousin. She looked genuinely upset, her arms wrapped around herself. “We’re Wielders. We’re supposed to protect the innocent from evil. Okay? Evil, Wen.  _ Bwbachod _ aren’t evil. This isn’t okay. You’re acting like we’re pest control!”

Wen frowned. “That’s exactly what we are. The big, scary evil stuff? We don’t stand a chance against it, not for real. Remember what happened when you tried to track down that banshee?”

Mercia looked away. “No.”

“Oh, no, no, I’m sure you do,” said Wen. “Week one of training, right? A banshee took that kid, and you tried to track it down, and instead…?”

Her cousin was shaking her head, as if that would help what had happened.

“Instead,” said Wen, “you found the kid’s intestines in the tree in our front yard. And  _ I  _ had to track down the banshee so it wouldn’t kill you in your sleep. They’re barely even evil, Merce. Imagine what would have happened if that were something worse.”

“That’s our job!” 

“No. Our job is to stab stuff with magical swords every so often, and to pray that nothing worse happens, because all we can do about it is sweet F-A.”

Mercia set her jaw. “You’re wrong,” she said.

“I’ve been doing this for ten years,” said Wen. “I’m really not.” 

Her cousin didn’t answer.

Wen nodded slowly. “Cool. Great. I need to report to Rübezahl.” She started on her way back to the cave. She didn’t really want to wake Rübezahl up, but even more than that, she didn’t want him to freak out when he saw his pot tipped over. 

When she reached the mouth of the cave, Wen could still feel Mercia’s angry stare at her back.  _ Oh, come on. _

She turned, ready to tell her cousin to get over it.

But Mercia was still looking down at her feet in self-pity. And there, behind her cousin, were the eyes that Wen had felt burning holes through her shirt.

She wouldn’t have called them eyes, though; rather, the tall figure in the trees, on the ridge above Mercia, had two white glowing points where its eyes should have been. The glow was so bright that Wen couldn’t tell if it had eyes at all. And she would have said it looked human, only it was far too tall, and its proportions were all wrong in some not-entirely-awful way. It was like someone had tried to draw a person and, while they had succeeded in making it look  _ nice, _ they had not succeeded on the “person” part.

It was hard to tell, obscured as the figure was by the trees, but Wen thought she saw towering antlers on top of its head.

“Mercia—” she started, because  _ how is she not noticing it, it’s right behind her _ . But then Mercia looked up, Wen blinked, and the figure was gone.

She could still feel the glowing points pressing on her. Watching her.

“Holy shit,” she said. It came out an awed mumble.

“What?” said Mercia. Her eyebrows creased. “What’s up?”

There were moments where Wen felt like she didn’t exist. She’d fade away, and so would the certainty that whatever she’d just experienced was real. In those moments, she always reasoned, who was she to bother anyone with her nonexistent problems? Why bother at all if she didn’t exist? And then she would come back to herself, and it would be too late.

This was one of those. 

Mercia looked at her expectantly.

Wen shrugged.

“Probably nothing,” she said.

Her cousin glared at her. “I can’t believe I have to be the adult. We were given a gift, Wen, and a… a  _ grand  _ purpose. You’ll see. The people around here will realize that I’m the one who actually cares about protecting them, and you’ll get stuck with errands like this, and nothing else.”

“Fingers crossed,” said Wen. Whatever that thing had been, she didn’t want Mercia around here when she found out. Better to just wrap this up.

“You done?” said Wen. Now the nail in the coffin. “Or are you going to keep acting like a kid?”

Mercia scoffed, then turned around and stalked up the hill. Soon, she was over the ridge and out of sight. 

Wen let out a sigh of relief. She looked back up to where the figure had been, but it was as if it had never stood there at all. It was hard to convince herself that she’d really seen it, but she’d seen some crazy shit. This wasn’t going to break her.

And hey, maybe Rübezahl would have an idea about the thing.

In her backpack with the sandwiches, Wen had packed a flashlight. She fished it out, glad she’d saved the other sandwich. Dealing with the giant in one of his moods was awful, and this might help. 

She tromped into the cave, letting the water soak her boots. Yes, water was a death sentence for leather, and saltwater (seeing as they were tears) was definitely worse, but these boots had seen so much action that they were hardly boots anymore, anyway. The tears immediately soaked through to her socks. 

The cave stretched back, back, and back, carving its way deeper into the hill. Wen followed the sounds of the diesel-engine-snorting and the— oof, terrible way to phrase it— trail of tears. Eventually, the ceilings started to rise and she felt a cold draft coming from the tunnel. Already, the cave was far bigger than the surrounding hill should have allowed, but again, Rübezahl’s power base was vast and weird.

The tunnel opened up into a huge chamber, taller than a skyscraper and twice again as long. Yeah, physics and mass were definitely fucked in this place. 

“Rübezahl?” said Wen. 

The diesel engine sounded from the very back of the chamber. Then, a rumbling voice said, “Wendelin?”

It was hard to pinpoint the giant’s age; sometimes, he sounded like the oldest man in the world, and sometimes, he sounded like a pouty child with an abnormally low voice. Normally, though, his voice just sounded like rocks.

“Hey, buddy,” said Wen. She crept closer. “You okay?”

“They ate little Dynan,” said the giant. “Took her right out from under me.”

Dynan— or, basically, “little one”— was his favorite. The cloud of annoyance and fear in Wen’s head cleared a little.

“Man,” she said. “I’m sorry.” 

She reached the back of the cavern. Rübezahl sat in the left corner, his huge stone form curled up on itself. If it gave any idea of how large the cave was, the seated giant was about the height of a small office building— that was to say, four or five stories— and he could have stood up comfortably. Standing, he was closer to twelve stories. As to how he looked, it depended on the day. Among his other weird powers, he could change his shape. Not that he often ventured outside, but when he did, a gray-robed monk was a favorite form of his. The monk was also of indeterminate age, so that didn’t help.

Today, he was wearing a more common one of his faces. Maybe his default, Wen wasn’t sure. Wide head, large nose, sad eyes, all carved of stone, like the rest of him. The stone, at least, had to be his default. Mountain spirit = stone made some kind of sense.

“Are they dead?” said the giant.

“All of them,” said Wen.

He nodded solemnly. 

Wen debated even mentioning the figure in the woods; Rübezahl was just as likely to be serious and helpful as he was to break down and worry about the new threat eating his turnip friends.

But what if this thing ate  _ her  _ friends? 

Or, you know, her cousin. 

And he did seem to be done crying.

“Have you… seen anything in the woods?” said Wen. “Not  _ bwbachod.  _ Something else.”

The giant peered down at her. “What sort of ‘else’?”

“Oh, you know. Vaguely threatening. Tall and weird.”

“So… like me?” said Rübezahl. 

Wen cracked a smile. His mood had swung for the better, then. It always happened fast.

“No,” she said. “Unless you have antlers.”

The giant looked up at his head, where two rough stone antlers sprouted and grew toward the cave’s ceiling. “How are these?” he said. He chuckled to himself, which sounded like a rockslide.

“Nice,” said Wen. Her smile faded. “But I’m serious. This thing looked… wrong. Glowing white eyes, too. Does that help? Any ideas?”

Rübezahl looked pensive. “No, Wendelin. I’m sorry.”

She nodded to herself. “That’s okay. Oh, hey,” she said, “I brought you something.” Wen dug the remaining sandwich out of her pack. 

The giant’s face lit up and he reached down, palm open. Seeing as his hand was the size of a sedan, she set the sandwich on one of his fingertips.

He sniffed. “Bologna,” said Rübezahl, “they’ll enjoy that.” After saying this, he clamped a second stone finger over the sandwich and ground it to bits. Then he turned around and sprinkled it on the ground. Dozens of little turnips ran out from behind the giant to devour it.

As they did so, Rübezahl sighed. “It’s bad for them,” he said. “Wendelin, you shouldn’t tempt me to give them treats. They’re only supposed to eat turnips, and the occasional piece of sourdough.”

“I know, I know. But turnips eating turnips? I’m not one for cannibalism,” said Wen.

“It has to do with their magical upkeep. You know that.” He looked hurt.

Wen shrugged. She did know that, but he also would have complained if she hadn’t brought anything for him to give his little pets.

As tough as it was to deal with his capricious moods, Wen had had a soft spot for the giant since they’d discovered him in the sewers of Kent, Ohio. He’d been driven from his home by poachers (of the supernatural variety) looking to hang a giant’s head on their wall. Shrunken to less than a quarter of his normal stature to stay hidden, he’d been one of the first beings Wen had met after coming into her power as a Wielder, and certainly the first who’d actively needed her help. With the aid of her uncle, she’d rehomed him in the cave behind her house, and the two of them had nursed the giant back to health. Over the following months, he’d told her of his home in Czechoslovakia and his lost princess who, as far as Wen could tell, was lost centuries and centuries ago. Wen had brought him turnip seeds when he’d asked, bemoaning his loneliness, and he’d told her to return the next day. Sixteen-year-old Wen was far more amused by the turnip-people than she was now, but even they still held a warm place in her heart. And Rübezahl had been invaluable after her uncle… after everything that had happened.

“They shouldn’t be back for a while,” said Wen. “The  _ bwbachod _ , I mean.”

“That’s good,” said Rübezahl. He looked down fondly at his vegetable pets. “That’s good.”

Wen shoved her hands in her pockets. “If you need anything else, let me know. There’s been a lot of activity recently, and Mercia’s on me to train her, so I might not make it to tea this week.”

“That’s all right,” the giant rumbled. “I’ll just be here, being lonely.”

She fought her urge to snap at him. It wasn’t his fault he was lonely. “Yep. I’ll try to visit if I can.” Wen pointed the flashlight toward the exit tunnel. “See you later, bud.”

“Goodbye, Wendelin.”

As she made her way back out of the impossibly huge cavern, into the parts of the cave that made sense, she could hear Rübezahl talking to his pets, as he often did.

_ “Antlers,”  _ he was saying,  _ “do you know who has antlers, little ones? Deer and hunters and fae. We like one of these three, take care to remember. Only one of them.” _

Deer, obviously. Hunters had driven him from his home, and he had a hearty dislike for fae. 

But, just as she exited the cave, Wen realized what that meant. He’d been talking about antlers because of the figure she’d asked about— a figure that was decidedly not a deer and not a hunter.

It had been a fairy.


End file.
